


In The End, They All Want The Confetti                             (Or: Five Things Kate Learns About Clint, And The Time She Puts That Knowledge To Good Use)

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-13 00:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9096487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: “Clinton Francis Barton,” she says as a piece of confetti falls out of his hair and onto her hand, “You’re a walking disaster.  But at least now you look a little festive.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for the "Hawkeyes Squared" exchange based on a conglomeration of prompts that I shamelessly took as kind of a _carte blanche_ to write one of those slow-burn/friends-to-lovers/Five-Times things for which I have an unnatural fondness. 
> 
> The story follows comics canon rather more impressionistically than faithfully (don’t yell at me for taking liberties!) and can be read as a companion piece to "[Diamonds and Rust](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7520779)", if you squint. And finally, credit for the title goes to the owner of a local high-end booze shop, who is clearly a philosopher in tune with the Human Condition.
> 
> Thanks to Gecko for running a fun exchange!

 

1

 

The man who suddenly appears in her apartment is older than the type Kate normally hangs out with. Good-looking yes, but he’s got wrinkles around his eyes and there’s a look in them that makes her think she really, really doesn’t want a list of all the shit he must have seen.

His name, she knows, is Clint Barton. There were huge pictures at the memorial service, and coming in through the window from the fire escape is, apparently, normal behavior for him. That in and of itself would be disconcerting, but the first thing he says, right after a perfunctory “Hi,” is that he wants his bow and his name back. 

Seriously? 

Of course, of the many intelligent things one could say in a moment like this – starting with ‘Get the fuck out of my place’ - none come readily to mind. Instead, Kate’s brain opts for the Snake Plisskin Classic. 

“I thought you were dead.” 

Which isn’t a response to his demand, exactly, but it’ll have to do. 

“Do I look dead?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. Then he hesitates, frowns. “Wait. Don’t answer that.” 

And yeah, as a matter of fact, Barton does look a bit like he’s just walked out of a zombie movie, all covered in Band-Aids and one side of his face marred by a purple bruise. But he holds himself like a coiled spring, ready to explode into action, and it looks like there’s plenty of life left in him yet. 

Kate sees no reason to start a fight, what with the bow they both want sitting on the coffee table halfway between them and him having longer arms. Plus, he probably outweighs her by about fifty pounds. (Not that he appears to be actually threatening right now.) 

“Captain America gave me that bow after you died,” she says. “ _And_ the name. He said they were both mine now. Cried when he did it, too.” 

Why she added that last bit she doesn’t know, but it seems to have an effect. His face cracks into a half smile that does miracles to those troubled eyes. 

“No shit?” He sounds eager, almost excited, like someone who doesn’t get the sentimental treatment very often and expects it even less. “He did?” 

Kate knows a good opening when she sees one, and nods eagerly. 

“Devastated, he was. _Of all the people to allow himself to be killed by aliens_ , he said, _I wouldn’t have picked Clint Barton. I’d expect him to try and sell them bits of France, then walk away and drill an arrow into their eyestalks instead_.” 

He preens a little, causing her to remember something else. 

“Stark turned over a glass for you. And then Deadpool said, _May he rest in peace, the arrogant little motherfucker_.” 

Barton tut-tuts, obviously embarrassed a bit now, but in a good way. Her approach seems to have worked; he’s softened up considerably. 

“Tell you what, Miss Bishop,” he says -- and if he means that as an insult it isn’t working, because it actually sounds surprisingly sweet. “You can keep the name, ‘coz you never know when I have to go on a sabbatical again, and having a spare Hawkeye around may be useful.” 

He leans forward and, sure enough, gets his hands on the bow before she has a chance. 

“But this baby, she’s mine.” He weighs it in his hand and considers for a second. “I’ll see if I can find you one just as sweet, provided you earn it. Gotta keep up the Hawkeye family honour, and all that.” 

And with that, he heads back to the window. He waves, turns and climbs out, giving Kate an interesting view of a rather attractive rear in the process. 

Definitely not dead.

 

 

2.

 

Damn it if he isn’t true to his word. 

Three months later Kate has pretty much given up on seeing the other Hawkeye ever again, let alone the promised bow, when there’s a knock on her window. It’s still not entirely clear to her why Barton couldn’t come through the door like a normal human being, but at least he’s knocking this time, so that’s progress. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know which of the doors were yours,” he says sheepishly. “Fucking apartment buildings all look the same to me. The window I recognized though. Dream catcher.” 

Kate’s eyes involuntarily fly up to the tacky thing she’d picked up in a store somewhere: _faux_ leather wound around the wheel and mangy dyed feathers dangling from strands of plastic pearls. Just this short of cultural appropriation, really, but she’d been grasping at straws at the time and a lot of shitty dreams to deal with. Amazing he’d remember the thing. 

She allows herself to look at what’s in his hand. It’s a nice hand, long fingers, similar callouses to her own, strong veins running up a rock-solid forearm; the t-shirt stretches around biceps that look capable of pulling at least a hundred pounds.

“See? I promised,” he says, holding up the bow. “It’s a Uukha Upro 25. Next gen from my own, actually; they don’t make that one anymore. Thought you could handle the riser weight, based on your arms and shoulders.” 

“Excuse me? When did you look at my …” Oh. Right. Sauce for the goose, and all that. Maybe it’s a Thing archers do, checking out each other’s equipment?

“Never mind. Why give that to me now?”  

He harrumphs a little nervously.  

“Emm… Heard what you did with your little compound over on hundred-and-thirty-ninth. Using arrows and some line to help evac that family from the tenth floor when their place went up in flames? Good stuff, kiddo. So, yeah.”

Kate decides to ignore the “kiddo” part for now – how old does he think she is? Funny though; here she’d thought maybe he’d read about the thing with the doombots; that had been all over the news for days. _Young Avengers Save Part of Lower Queens._ Because that fire? That had been in the way back of the local section, filed under ‘in case you made it this far, here’s a human interest tidbit as a reward’. She eyes him cautiously, and asks the first question that pops into her mind. 

“Why would an Avenger care about what happens to some random family in Harlem?” 

He frowns at her, and for a moment it looks like he might take the bow back. Which would be a shame, because it’s a gorgeous piece of equipment, all matte black carbon and that grip? _Man_ , she’s a beaut. But he seems willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. 

“Far as I know, everyone deserves an equal crack at being rescued, whether they have a bazillion bucks or not, and even if no one’s there with an iPhone to get cool footage for the news. You want the bow, or not?” 

Kate digests his answer for a bit, right up until she realizes something. Cap had given her Barton’s bow, with an admonishment to ‘earn this, and get as good as he was.’ Now she’s got an even better bow, and here’s the perfect person to help her do what Captain America asked. 

“Listen, Hawkeye,” she says, and damn the non sequitur. “You give lessons? Or is that world’s-best-marksman thing like a trademark, where you keep a secret how you do it so no one can get as good?” 

Barton looks a little panicky for a moment, as if taking on a student for him has the same charm as juggling live buzz saws, but then something occurs to him and he shrugs. 

“S’pose so. May as well not water down the franchise.” 

He takes a ratty piece of paper out of his back pocket, scans her desk for a pen and writes down something. An address. 

“Here. Don’t show up before eleven. If you do, bring Starbucks. Double espresso, black. Actually, bring that whenever you come. I’m usually running low on coffee.” 

Kate watches him exit the window to the fire escape - still with that butt! - her hand stroking her new bow. Who’d have thought? An Avenger giving a shit about common folk, and willing to train his successor? 

Maybe the Elder Hawkeye isn’t such a jerk after all.

 

3.

 

“Katie-Kate? That you?” 

Clint’s voice has a bit of a whine to it, the one he gets when he hasn’t had a coffee for at least two hours. Kate ditches her bow and walks into the pigsty he calls an apartment. Surely he could do better than a one-bedroom hole-in-the-wall (even if it comes with a great rooftop for target practice)? 

“What’s the matter? Someone switch you to decaf while you weren’t looking?” 

He moans a denial. 

“I think I cracked a rib.” 

Clint is sitting on the couch he salvaged from some curb or other, half sunk into the upholstery. He’s shirtless and in a pair of those low-slung sweatpants that shouldn’t look good on anyone, but for some reason hang just right on him. Not that Kate would admit that, because really, this is Clint and he’s made it pretty clear that when he looks at her all he sees is a baby human, while he is The Old Man Of The Prairies. Two can play _that_ game. 

“Don’t just stand there. Come have a look?” 

His voice is sufficiently plaintive that she steps up to him. He lifts his arms, folds his hands behind his head and looks at her hopefully. Just what she is supposed to diagnose this way escapes her; last time she checked, she did not have X-ray vision. 

“So what did you do? Play football with the Hulk?” 

“Got hit by a car,” he explains helpfully. “Or, rather, jumped over one. You know, like they do in the movies when they can’t wait for the thing to pass but have to cross _right then_? Always wanted to try that. Shouldn’t have picked a Mercedes, though. That star thing …” 

His voice trails off; his breath skips a little while she scans his torso. Ribs, check; not that easy to see them all, but the ones exposed by his stretch look pretty _there,_ with no major bumps. Six pack, check; still symmetrical. Skin, check; unbroken, if looking surprisingly soft from this close up. There’s a purple bruise spreading in the area of his left kidney. (He should be glad he didn’t try that roll on a Rolls.) Thin line of hair, disappearing into those ugly purple sweatpants; check…  

Kate slaps herself mentally even as she restrains herself from slapping Clint for real. 

“You _look_ fine,” she says. “Looks bruised, not broken. Anything more specific, you’ll need a medic. But no guarantees on your mental and intellectual health.” 

Of course, he has a perfectly reasonable explanation. Something about a purse snatching, a little old lady and her life savings, and a mugger on the run. Yada, yada, yada. Typical Clint – saving someone else’s butt only to end up with Band-Aids on his own. By the time he’s done spinning his epic tale of stylish self-sacrifice, Kate feels unaccountably charitable. Enough so, in fact, that she does what he called her name for in the first place, which is to make him coffee. 

Finding a clean mug in the diabolical vortex of Clint’s kitchen is like a hunt for the Holy Grail; eventually she washes out a couple by hand and shoves everything else on the counter into the dishwasher that he seems to have forgotten he owns. (There’s even soap!) Snack. Snack, snack, snack… The only thing in the fridge is a bag of chips, so she opens that and brings everything over to the couch, together with the TV zapper. 

“Guess practice is out for today?” she asks rhetorically as she plonks herself down beside him on the couch and reaches for a chip. He moans something non-committal, but politely adjusts his legs so she can curl into them properly. 

Clint Barton may be the world’s shittiest housekeeper, but he sure has great taste in couches. This one may just be the comfiest Kate has ever sat on; best of all, he doesn’t seem to mind if she stays and becomes one with the cushions. 

 

4.

 

Clint announcing that he’s moving into a new apartment in Brooklyn doesn’t come as a total surprise; even the most shell-bound hermit crab eventually has to change domiciles when they get too small. What does give Kate pause though is that the place comes with a whole building full of tenants, utilities that need to be paid for, a gang of resentful and heavily armed Eastern European thugs, and a dog. 

The dog, whom Clint has named “Lucky” for some unfathomable reason, is something else. Skinny, one ear a lot floppier than the other, bare patches in his fur, and ribs showing. Talk about your rescue animal. 

“They were kicking him,” Clint explains as he picks on a fresh Band-Aid. (Clearly, the dog wasn’t the only one who suffered in the exchange.) Lucky, who is occupying a prime warm spot on Clint’s feet, whines a little at the sound of his new master’s voice, but to Kate’s ears it sounds like smug contentment rather than a mewl for sympathy. 

All in all though, Lucky turns out to be a useful addition to Clint’s life. Watching him fuss over the dog – feeding him pizza, making sure he gets out the requisite number of times, even taking him to the vet – and watching Lucky return his affections with complete and utter devotion might just tell Clint something he needs to hear. 

Because when it comes to dealing with human relationships, Clint seems to be stuck in an attract-and-repel loop; women are essentially handing each other the door knob on their way in and out of his life, going as fast as they came (pun intended). Not that this should be any of Kate’s business, of course, because Clint is an adult and all that. But… 

Clearly Clint isn’t lacking in people willing to sleep with him; Kate has lost track of the number of times she’s walked into his apartment and found flimsy, flossy _things_ hanging over her couch. Lace, satin, spandex… even rubber one time, which had actually grossed Clint out when she’d held it out to him and caused him to mutter how that explained a few things. It’s not that Kate minds any of that. ( ~~Okay, so she does, a little~~ ). Sex and companionship are good things to see you through the night, provided you use protection, which he does – she’s seen the evidence. 

So what’s the problem? 

Some of the women are actually pretty cool; he generally does have decent taste unless he’s on an adrenaline high. Maybe it’s all those Jane Austen novels she’d read in her early teens, but Kate is pretty convinced Clint deserves better than just sex. (Doesn’t anyone?) 

For example. Kate likes Jess. She really does. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with healthy sexual activity, especially with someone as ~~attractive~~ objectively appealing as Clint ~~what with those abs, butt and arms~~. He’s also ~~kind of cute~~ sort of handsome, what you can see under those Band-Aids. Especially when he smiles. But why wouldn’t Jess see that using Clint as a fuck buddy just reinforces his inner cynic, and his tendency to think that he’s not worth sticking around for? 

Lucky, dumb loyal dog that he is, knows a good thing when he’s got his teeth into it, and has made himself at home in Clint’s life (and vice versa, so it IS possible). His hair is everywhere, he’s getting his ears scratched, there’s a water bowl in the bathroom so he won’t drink from the toilet, and he gets fed and walked regularly. And when Kate tries to sit on the couch he’s usually already there, taking up space and showing no sign of leaving. 

So why doesn’t anyone in Clint’s endless queue of girlfriends see that he deserves better, too? Someone should stage an intervention, and soon.

 

5.

 

There’s that stupid Barry Manilow song, about how it never rains in Southern California. Well, as Kate has found out, there are a lot of other things that don’t happen there too, and the ones that do – let’s just say it’d be better if they didn’t. Or hadn’t. 

The whole place is basically a fuck fiesta on an epic scale, featuring nasty people with nastier habits, Kate’s father revealing himself as an even more disgusting human being than hitherto thought possible, and good guys getting their butts kicked. 

It’s that last thing that reminds Kate of Clint and how maybe Barry Manilow was singing about him? Or her? ‘ _Don’t tell them how you found me – gimme a break.’_ She opens her mouth to say that last bit out loud, as a general entreaty to the Fates, but there’s no one to hear her except Lucky, who is whining forlornly. That eternal California sunshine doesn’t seem to agree with him, either. 

It suddenly hits her, as she looks at her bruised and swollen face in the mirror, that having a Hawkeye on either side of the coast may be a Good Thing in theory but in practice, it just sucks. And if battling Madame Masque without Hawkeye-grade backup wasn’t much fun, then maybe Clint feels the same way about the tracksuit gang?

Okay, fine. May as well admit it: she misses him. That cantankerous, sarcastic, oblivious, who-me-have-a-heart? car crash of a human being. Misses his couch, misses the perpetual smell of coffee in his apartment, misses how warm he feels when she falls asleep on him during those endless re-runs of ‘Dog Cops’. 

 _Damn._  

Kate doesn’t even bother to pack (much). She grabs Lucky and goes, just as it starts to rain buckets outside. They’ll get soaked to their butts and Lord knows what they’ll find when they get there, but it’s time to go home.

  

\+ 1

 

Well, wasn’t that a blast-and-a-half. The city morgue is currently full of guys in cheap Russian tracksuits; both Clint and Kate voluntarily surrendered an arrowhead each so the coroner can sort out who killed which one. In self-defense of course, the DA had kindly made that clear, so no self-incrimination issues. 

But the price of success had been high: Grills. Barney leaving again; what he took with him this time and no, the money isn’t the thing. Clint’s hearing loss. Smaller things, not yet counted or apparent. 

Kate looks around at the debris field that is Clint’s kitchen, complete with dog prints in the pancake mix that somehow got on the floor along with most of the contents of the cupboard. There’s also a pile of broken dishes, which she can only hope were dirty because otherwise what a waste. She watches Clint trying to cope - not easy without a broom - and gets to thinking. 

The hearing aids had been a surprise. She’d found before she got to New York of course, but seeing them in his ears… A bit of a shock that was, but not in a bad way, no. They suit him somehow, like all the damaged bits of Clint are now out there, right out in the open, concentrated in a little gizmo for the world to see. A gizmo he can take out at night, too, although the jury is out on whether that feature adds anything to the useful metaphor she’s just come up with. 

The rest of Clint is a bit of a frightful sight, to be honest – swollen jaw, more Band-Aids than ever, moving with a lot less grace than he usually does, and occasionally holding his side. What did he let them do to him while she was gone? 

Truth is, her mind is babbling. 

Because all she can really think of right now is the look she’d seen in Clint’s eyes when she’d showed up, after all those weeks in SoCal. Like he’d seen the sun rising out of an unexpected part of the sky, bringing Gandalf and the eagles. He’d looked away really quickly, which was probably good because there was a siege about to happen and shit got Hawkeye-real pretty much right after that. 

But no one’s ever looked at her like that and it’s the oddest thing. Kind of nice, it had made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside for a second, but now it burns rather than glows and she doesn’t know how to deal with it without getting her fingers singed. 

Clint has given up on cleaning for now -- unless you can count sweeping things off the counter in an attempt to locate the coffee machine -- and is scrounging in the mostly empty cupboard for coffee. He turns to her, a comically desperate look on his face.

“No mugs left,” he says. “What kind of thugs would break people’s mugs?” 

He hesitates for a second.

"Hey, that sounds like something out of Dr. Seuss:   _What kind of thugs would break people's..."_

“I’ll go get some new ones,” she says, because drinking out of the pot may be good enough for him, but not for both of them. Like, ugh. The equivalent of passing a joint but with more bodily fluids. 

Kate almost runs out of the apartment, hails a yellow cab and heads for the Fulton Mall. She sinks down in the cabs slightly ratty upholstery and admits to herself that the truth is, being in the same room with Clint right now without grabbing him and holding on, or running her hands all over him to make sure he’s really _there_ and still in one piece, is oddly difficult. 

Through the cab’s window she spots one of those shops that sell yuppie teas and coffees; they should have mugs, too. She asks the cabbie to stop and wait. This isn’t Manhattan, so who knows when the next one will come by, and besides she knows that if she lets it go she may not go back at all. 

And that wouldn’t be fair to Clint, who expects mugs. 

Sure enough, the shop has a whole collection of them, emblazoned with more or less witty sayings. There’s nothing about archers though, so she settles for two that say _Keep Calm and Drink Coffee_ , one with the lettering in red and the other in black. With her credit card still blocked she can’t afford any more, besides having only two will help keep down the geological stratification in the sink.

“Are these a gift?” 

The guy at the counter starts to wrap them up in tissue paper before Kate can shake her head. They aren’t of course, but they do need to survive the trip back and so she approves of the tissue with a nod. She balks though when he brings out the cellophane.

“I don’t think we need that,” she says. “Just a bag is fine.”

Store Guy’s sensitivity is offended. 

“The cellophane is there to hold the confetti,” he explains, before adding reassuringly, “It’s complimentary.”

He dips his hand into a drawer and comes out with a handful of punch-outs from holographic paper.

“My friend isn’t really the confetti sort,” she says, staying his hand in mid-air. “Besides, his place is already a mess.”

Store Guy clucks disapprovingly, but pours the confetti back in the drawer. It sparkles and shimmers rather prettily in the light and, remembering all that plaster dust and pancake flower, Kate makes a quick decision. 

“Okay then,” she says. “Fine. Put it in.” 

Store Guy nods sagely. 

“In the end, they all want the confetti.”

He dumps a fresh handful into each bag, ties them up with baby-blue ribbon and presents them to Kate in exchange for 25 bucks plus change. She checks her holdings and adds a pound of Colombian, ground for drip, because who knows what shape the stuff left in the apartment will be in. 

Back up on Quincy, Clint must have borrowed a broom from one of the tenants. He has succeeded in collecting some of the debris in the kitchen into one heap, which he is trying to wrestle into a black garbage bag by means of a piece of cardboard that functions as a dustpan. Lucky alerts him to Kate’s arrival and he straightens out when she comes in. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” he says, again with that look. 

Something inside Kate cracks just a little. 

“Idiot.” 

For some reason they stand there for a minute, just staring at each other, until Kate recovers her wits.

“Here, have some decent coffee, and mugs. Your excuse for drinking from the pot is at an end.” 

She tries to open the cellophane around one of the mugs but it rips, unleashing a small blizzard of confetti onto the freshly swept kitchen floor. Lucky promptly goes nuts, trying to pick the stuff up with his nose and succeeding only in moving it around with the huffing of his breath. Clint is predictably non-plussed. 

“Confetti?” he says. “What’s that for?” 

Kate rips open the other bag, deliberately this time, and pours the confetti into her hand. She tosses it at Clint, watching iridescent snowflakes settling in his hair and on his shirt. 

“To celebrate,” she says firmly. “The fact that you’re not dead. That you’re still a nice guy, no matter what you get yourself into and what an idiot you are around women. And …” 

She has to stop there, because she’s suddenly gotten really close to him, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the familiar scent of his shampoo.

 _Damn._  

She reaches up to link her hands behind his head and pulls him down a little to her own height.

“Clinton Francis Barton,” she says as a piece of confetti falls out of his hair and onto her hand, “You’re a walking disaster. But at least now you look a little festive.” 

Whatever she was planning on saying next becomes kind of irrelevant because suddenly they’re kissing, tentatively at first and then more deeply and urgently and when his tongue touches hers Kate feels like she’s melting from the inside out. She wonders briefly whether that’s what all those other women had come here for, but she suspects this is different because to her his arms feel like staying there _,_ like she’s come _home_. 

He makes a little noise that doesn’t sound at all suave and ladies-mannish, or welcoming the fuck _du jour._ No, he’s just being… Clint, somewhere between protest, surrender and enjoying the hell out of what they’re doing, and giving in to the latter sensation rather more quickly than expected.

They make it to the couch before Lucky can claim his spot and Kate finally gets the chance to do what she had wanted to do earlier, which is to run her hands all over Clint’s body – under his t-shirt and into the waistband of his sweats and oh yes, he is _very_ much alive. 

His skin really _is_ soft, despite all those cuts and bruises, and that spiky hair? Not spiky at all. Quite the opposite, actually; she can’t get enough of the way it feels under her fingers, until other parts become far more interesting to explore. His own hands are beginning to do things to her body that make her shiver a little, and then a lot - but in a good way, not from cold, so it’s perfectly okay when her t-shirt ends up on the floor, followed by pretty much everything else. 

And that couch, as it turns out, is not only the comfiest ever, but much more useful than she’d ever imagined.


End file.
